


How Do You Exorcise the Goth from a Teenager? (John Really Wants to Know)

by Zanne



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Gen, Teenchester, goth!Sam
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-06-04
Updated: 2011-06-04
Packaged: 2017-10-19 22:01:35
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,899
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/205679
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Zanne/pseuds/Zanne
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Due to a laundry mishap and an off-hand comment by John, Sam takes a walk on the Goth-side.</p>
            </blockquote>





	How Do You Exorcise the Goth from a Teenager? (John Really Wants to Know)

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to [](http://luvspnl.livejournal.com/profile)[ **luvspnl**](http://luvspnl.livejournal.com/)  and [](http://gestaltrose.livejournal.com/profile)[**gestaltrose**](http://gestaltrose.livejournal.com/) for filling in as betas. You guys are awesome! Kripke owns all, but he needs more flashbacks so we can see young Sam and Dean. C'mon, Kripke! _Do it!_ I know that I've called the Sam in this story Goth, when he really tends more towards Punk, but I figure Jonh's the type where all non-norms gets the same tag and he went with Goth. So I did, too. Besides, Sam's straddling the line in his kilt, so why not? (Originally posted: 7/30/07)

  
Sam had hit his growth spurt earlier that year, all of his baby fat trying its valiant best to fit over the lengthening muscle and bone – if Sam actually _had_ any muscle, that was…kid was all knees and elbows – but it was straining to fulfill its mission. This left Sam with all the grace of the Scarecrow from _The_ _Wizard of Oz_ , loose-limbed and clumsy, tripping over everything in his path, imaginary or not.

“Hey, swizzle stick, get me a Coke from the fridge!” Dean called out across the apartment, eyes glued to the swimsuit models cooing over the benefits of bikinis vs. tanks on the television. The blonde one had some really impressive…points, and Dean was leaning towards bikinis already.

Sam ambled in a minute later, dropping the cold can of Coke directly onto Dean’s lap, hitting a rather sensitive area – his lap just as intrigued in the swimsuit debate as Dean was - with both freezing temperatures and sudden weight all at once.

Dean yelped, kicking out at his little brother as Sam settled on the other end of the couch. Dean paused mid-assault, eyes widening in disbelief. “What in the hell are you wearin’, Sammy?”

Sam glanced down at his clothes and shrugged, popping open his soda in Dean’s direction so his brother was sprinkled with a spray of sticky drops. “ _Sam_ ,” he said pointedly, “forgot to do laundry so _Sam_ is wearing some cargo shorts and one of his moronic brother’s old T-shirts.”

Dean thought that deserved another kick to the leg, so he did, observing Sam’s outfit with a small grin. “Seriously, dude, _Dean_ is asking where you dredged up those shorts.”

Sam glanced down at the deep black shorts that were cropped mid-shin, with far too many baggy pockets for a human to ever need. He shrugged again, the sharp bones of his shoulders hunching around his ears. “Think we got ‘em in Louisville. Remember when we lost all those clothes in that fire the poltergeist set and we just grabbed what we could find at the Goodwill?”

Dean nodded in agreement, eyes still fixated on the black Megadeth T-shirt with a giant flaming skull gracing Sam’s bony chest. “You know that’s my shirt, right?” Dean asked, taking a swallow of his drink.

“I believe I established that with my earlier statement - _‘one of my **moronic** brother’s old T-shirts’_ ,” Sam agreed, slouching back against the seat cushion. “Maybe I should amend that to _‘one of my moronic **and** deaf brother’s old T-shirts’_.”

That definitely deserved another kick to the hip. “It’s not old. It’s _classic_.”

Sam snorted. “Yeah, like the Model-T.”

 _That_ comment deserved some hands-on brotherly retaliation, and Dean pounced on his little brother to give him a well-deserved noogie when their dad walked in the door.

Just one look at John’s face warned them that he was in a bad mood. John hated the job he had managed to get to keep them in town until school was out – well, not so much the job as the asshole manager who knew nothing about cars and still insisted he was in charge.

Suffice it to say, incompetence annoyed John Winchester.

John stalked into the room, pissed off and grouchy as a newly awakened bear, and saw his two boys wrestling on the couch, a can of Coke lying in dramatic red relief against the spreading spill of brown liquid across the carpet. “It’s past 11:30, _go to bed_ ,” he ordered gruffly. He’d move a chair over the stain later.

Sam and Dean took one look at each other and decided retreat was the better part of valor and got up to do as they were told without argument, for once.

“God, Sam, what are you _wearing_?” John asked when his slender son unfolded himself from the floor. The darkness of the outfit and the cut of the shorts somehow managed to make Sam look even more stick-like, and John commented disagreeably, “You look like one of those punk Goth kids that need their asses kicked.”

Sam remained silent as he and Dean made their way towards their bedroom. When Sam turned to shut the door behind them and Dean caught sight of _that_ look on Sam’s face, Dean wondered what was going through his little brother’s scary brain at that moment. 

                                               ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Sam showed up at breakfast the next morning dressed in nearly the same outfit….

…with the added bonus of dyed black hair and…get this…nail polish.

An explosive spray of milk came from Dean as he tried to laugh and drink at the same time, spattering John like a sprinkler. As John wiped off the residue of Dean’s amusement, Sam sat down calmly at the table and scooped up some scrambled eggs as if this were an average day in the Winchester household.

John just stared at his son with an eyebrow arched in polite skepticism, as if he weren’t sure if he were awake just yet.

Dean was unable to control his glee, even in the sudden subdued silence of the kitchen, laughing until he began to choke on a half-chewed piece of toast as he watched Sam’s long, thin fingers grasp his glass of milk, the black of the polish standing out in stark relief against the whiteness of the glass. The uncomfortable twinge in Dean’s bladder warned him that if Sam so much as made him sneeze, he might just pee his pants from the pure hilarity of the moment.

God, Dean wished he had a camera.

Sam sat regally in his flimsy wooden chair, his usual tousled mop of hair now a disheveled inky color, blending easily with his black T-shirt – AC/DC this time…damn kid had raided his closet again – and the familiar cargo shorts from the night before. His thin boned limbs draped both over and under the table like Sam was some sort of mutant spider, sprawling possessively across the kitchen as he tried to claim a space of his own.

This left Sam looking like nothing less than a fleshed out version of Jack Skellington with a disconcerting smile full of an almost inhuman amount of teeth, aimed directly at their father.

“Holy hell, Sam,” Dean chortled. “Where’d you get that shit?”

“At the store…last night,” Sam said, eyeing their father steadily as he took a long drink.

John was _not_ amused.

Needless to say, Dean _was_ , as his barely concealed snickering indicated.

“Sam, you know you’re not supposed to go out without telling one of us,” John began.

Sam cut him off with a careless wave of his fork. “I left a note for Dean.”

John glanced at Dean curiously as Dean glared at his brother. “Was that what was smeared all over my forehead this morning? I told you before that _this_ ,” Dean gestured over his face, “is not a post-it note, got it? It’s a protected landmark.” Sam just smirked at him, forking in a bite of scrambled eggs.

“Sam,” John began again, his annoyance coming through loud and clear despite his calm tone, “take that…stuff off your hands and wash your hair.”

“Permanent - won’t wash out,” Sam replied succinctly, shoving half a slice of toast into his mouth, the dim light in the small room glistening off the pearlescent sheen of his dark nails. Sam was like a magician with those slim fingers, the dancing black-tipped digits somehow keeping both Dean and John’s eyes on whatever Sam was currently doing with his hands, be it spreading butter on a slice of toast, picking lint off his shirt, or tapping out an impatient rhythm on the table top as he tried to pour some juice into his glass.

“ _Sam_ ,” John stated more firmly, refocusing his attention on the matter at…hand. “That look is _entirely_ inappropriate for _my_ son. You need to look more like a _man_ …like Dean!”

Dean grinned, showing Sam a mouthful of scrambled egg. “Yeah, Sammy, your hair already makes people think you’re a _girl_.”

Sam threw the crust of his toast at his brother.

John opened his mouth to continue his lecture on propriety when Sam jumped to his feet. “C’mon, Dean. _Sam_ says it’s time to leave for school.”

“I expect you to be cleaned up when I get home tonight!” John called after him.

“Sure thing, Mr. Cleaver,” Sam called back with obvious sarcasm, tossing his backpack over his shoulder.

“ _Dude_ , Ward back there could break you in half with one hand,” came Dean’s wary voice down the hall. A sudden spill of laughter soon followed, “You realize that makes you the Beaver, right Sammy?”

“If I’m the Beaver, then you can just _eat me_ , Dean.”

“Sammy!” Dean whistled appreciatively. “Nice comeback! Come on over here a second.” A muffled grunt came down the hallway when Dean cuffed Sam on the back of the head. “Wally got all the chicks, Beav. Live and learn.”

Sam’s colorful retort was cut-off by the slamming front door. 

                                                ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Sam’s response to John’s declaration was to come home wearing eyeliner.

Dean gave John credit for not exploding on the spot when he saw it; he must have been strategizing at work when he realized where this was heading. Their father might not be on the same wavelength as Sam, but he wasn’t _entirely_ stupid.

So, despite the fact that the smudged black lines really brought out the tilt to Sam’s eyes, making him look oddly feminine despite the strong lines of his face, John kept his mouth shut.

Dean could tell it was a struggle from the way the vein in their father's temple carved its way across his skin.

John merely took several deep breaths before mumbling something incoherent at the ceiling that sounded like nose ring and Prince Albert, God forbid, and they were moving at the end of the school year for fuck’s sake – only two more months! - before he had to kill them _both_.

“Hey!” Dean protested loudly, “I haven’t painted myself up like a girl so what’s the problem?”

John eyed him steadily. “I’d appreciate it if you would clean out the underwear collection that has accumulated in the glove box, thank you very much, before we have to spray the car down with disinfectant and have the CDC declare it safe for human habitation once more. Got it, Dean?”

Sam thought _that_ was as amusing as hell and collapsed against the counter, his laugh turning squeaky whenever his voice broke.

Dean thwapped him on the back of the head. “Go curl your eyelashes like a good girl, _Sammy_.” 

                                                     ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Sam came out of the bathroom the next morning with his hair in spikes, giving his brother a baleful glare. “Try to hit me in the head again, Dean,” Sam urged tauntingly, crossing his arms across his chest, assured of his own invulnerability.

Dean slapped the flat of his palm against Sam’s forehead in response before tentatively poking at one spike. He found it to have the holding power of cement, the stiff column of hair nearly as dangerous as one of the weapons they had hidden in their duffels. “What the fuck did you put in your hair, you freak?” Dean asked incredulously.

“Glue,” Sam said simply, rubbing at the sore spot on his forehead as he frowned at his brother. “Mixed with water.”

Dean then punched Sam in the arm – twice - for being stupid. “I volunteer to shave your head when you realize that hair makes it impossible to sleep, genius.”

Dean chuckled with amusement, running his hand over Sam’s spikes once more. “I’ll call you Tootsie Pop when you’re bald ‘cause you’ll be the biggest sucker ever to walk the earth.” 

                                            ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Dean would still be laughing if the look didn’t suit his brother so God-damned much.

Dean observed Sam folded awkwardly in the front seat of the car, Sam’s feet up on the dashboard clad in a beat-up pair of Dean’s black boots, pushing his knees up somewhere around his ears as he absently picked at the peeling black polish on his thumb.

Kid couldn’t even sit like a normal person.

“So how much longer are you gonna stick with this BabyVamp look, Sammy?” Dean asked. Oddly enough, the black hair that draped over Sam’s slim features made his usually golden skin look strangely pale, as if it drew all the color from Sam’s flesh.

Damn if it didn’t make his sun-bronzed baby brother look delicate and downright consumptive. _Freaky_.

“ _Sam_ is going to graduate in this outfit if he wants to,” Sam replied calmly.

Dean snorted in disbelief. “Well, _Dean_ can’t believe you’d rather go walking around looking like a doofus than do what Dad says.” Dean reached over to swat at his brother’s feet leaving dusty prints all over his dashboard. “And _Dean_ hopes _Sam_ realizes he sounds like a pretentious little prick talking about himself in third person.”

Sam flashed him a grin. “ _Sam_ is surprised that you know what third person is.”

“ _Dean_ is going to kick your ass when we get home after school today,” he replied, before groaning and slouching in the driver’s seat. “Now you’ve got me doin’ it, Sam-onella.” Dean pulled into an empty parking space at the high school, glaring over at his little brother.

“ _Sam_ is pleased,” Sam replied, laughing as he hopped out of the car and loped his way towards the library with his over-sized boots making loud _clop-clop_ sounds against the pavement. 

                                              ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

John had stopped reacting to Sam’s walk on the Goth-side, disappointing Sam because his brash foray into rebellion wasn’t being fully appreciated with the dramatic stand-offs and righteous claims of individual freedoms he’d been looking forward to.

Sam obviously had to step it up a notch.

He came home with a tattoo.

Dean pounced on him the second he noticed the black lines curling around Sam’s scrawny bicep. Wrestling Sam to the ground, Dean sat on his back as he tugged up Sam’s sleeve, growling in disbelief, “What the fuck, Sam?! Are you entirely insane? You know what Dad says about tattoos!” Dean bounced a little, forcing the air out of Sam’s lungs in a muffled grunt against the carpet. “You got balls, Sammy. Not for long, so enjoy ‘em while you’ve got ‘em.”

“Get _off_ me, Dean,” Sam grumbled, feeling the carpet burn across his cheekbone.

“I dunno,” Dean said, settling in. “I think I’m gonna watch a little TV. You don’t mind, do ya, Sammy?”

“ _Sam_ minds very much because his brother’s fat ass is crushing his spleen.”

Dean chuckled, sliding off Sam’s back and latching his hand around his arm to help him up. As Dean’s thumb brushed over the dark lines on Sam’s skin, the ink smudged in a wide swatch of darkness against the pale underside of Sam’s arm. Staring at the bruise-like shadow that now graced his brother’s bicep, Dean started laughing, falling back on the couch in a graceless heap. “Oh, _Sammy_. You really think that’s gonna fool ‘im?”

“Fooled _you_ , didn’t it?” Sam replied with a smirk.

Dean stared at him with a considering look, biting at his lower lip in thought. A grin tugged at the corner of his mouth and he said suddenly, “Where’s that black Sharpie? I can fix this - think we should add a skull? I swear Sam, if you don’t wake me up before you show it to him, I will _never_ forgive you.” 

                                                ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Sam sprawled indecorously across the corner of the couch, his kilt draping open indecently as he idly flipped through the channels.

“Holy hell, Sam. If you were goin’ commando I’d be _blind_ right now,” Dean complained as he walked in the room, shoving his brother over to make some space on the couch. There’s was only one day left before school was out for the summer, and Sam’s continued immersion into Goth culture had definitely made the year’s end memorable for Dean.

John had actually started marking the days off on the wall calendar, constantly mumbling a countdown interspersed with thankful prayers they had made it to the end of the school year without Sam getting any permanent holes in any body parts he could or couldn’t see.

Dean tugged on the hem of Sam’s kilt, commenting teasingly, “Doug Thisterson wants to know if my pretty sister will go out with him.”

“ _Still_ not funny, Dean,” Sam replied, refocusing on his recently painted nails, tentatively touching the black enamel to make sure it was thoroughly dry.

Dean studied his brother’s hands contemplatively, saying idly, “You know…Ozzy paints his nails. He’s cool.”

Sam grinned at him slyly, rubbing his nails against the front of his shirt as if making them even glossier. “Girls love a well-manicured man.”

“Dude, where do you come up with this shit?”

Sam shrugged. “I make it up. Who knows the difference?” Sam stared at him challengingly, “C’mon, Dean. Walk on the wild side for a day. Just think of Dad’s reaction tomorrow morning….”

Dean hesitated for a moment before holding out his hand, Sam grabbing it eagerly as he started painting large stripes of black across his brother’s nails. Dean settled back, a slow grin crawling over his face. “Think we can make coffee come out of his nose again? ‘Cause that was _awesome_ , Sammy.”

Sam glanced up at Dean through the dark overhang of his bangs, a small grin edging its way across his face. “ _Sam_ agrees.” 

  



End file.
